Shut Up and Dance
by ChelsieLynn
Summary: Bucky has awoken from cryosleep. That can only mean one thing; they found a way to fix him. But, to Bucky's dismay, T'Challa tells him they still haven't found a way to remove the brainwashing from HYDRA that has a hold on his mind. Instead, they've thought of a different treatment. Bucky is assigned to a world renowned psychiatrist who hopes to fix his mind. [BuckyXOC].
1. Prologue

**AN: Soooo, I saw Black Panther (finally!) and OMG awesome... and those last like 12 seconds ;) haha... anyways, so since I've now seen Black Panther and know a little bit more about T'Challa and Wakanda, I decided to re-write the chapters that I've already written to make everything more cannon... and also, I wanted to include Shuri in the story since 1) she's awesome and 2) I think her and Bucky's relationship would be adorable and awesome to write about. So, the first 5 chapters have all been re-written rather than an actual update; this fake chapter 6 is just to inform you all in case you want to go back and re-read. When I have the real chapter six done I'll remove this and post the new chapter. As always, thanks for reading, you guys rock! :) -ChelsieLynn**

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 **ORIGINAL AN:**

 **AN: I know what you're thinking... another fic?! But she doesn't update the ones she has now... I know! But I really like the idea for this story and I wanted to get started to see what you guys think... so this one is about Bucky. It takes place in Wakanda after the events of Captain America: Civil War. Main characters are Bucky and a couple OCs (if you don't like OCs then you won't like my story) with some appearances of T'Challa and Steve Rogers. It's listed as a romance but there's also some humor, hurt/comfort, angst, and hopefully adventure. Rated T mostly for language and what not. The title is from the song "Shut up and Dance' by Walk the Moon (which inspired this fic), which seems like an odd title but it'll make sense later on. Couple of disclaimers...**

 **Disclaimer 1: As much as I would like to (hehe ;) ) I do not own the Winter Soldier or anything Marvel related. Nor do I own the song/lyrics of Shut Up and Dance**

 **Disclaimer 2: As I've said before, this story has a couple OCs and if that's not you're thing then fine, don't read my story. I've warned you. If you read and decide to leave rude reviews about my OCs, I will not be happy :)**

 **Disclaimer 3: I have limited knowledge of Black Panther/Wakanda so if some stuff isn't quite canon, I apologize.**

 **I think that's it. This is short but it's just to give you an idea of what's to come. I hope you like! Please read and review! :)**

Prologue:

" _He expressly stated that the only reason he should be brought out of the cryofreeze is if a solution was found."_

 _The words came from a man seated at the head of a long, shining, wooden table. He was tall and muscular and sat with an air of authority. Seated along the sides of the table were about a dozen people. Most wore long, white medical coats. A man halfway down the right side of the table spoke next._

" _I understand Sergeant Barnes' request," he said, "But realistically, this is a mental condition. A cognitive condition. Psychological. One that needs studying and treatment with the patient awake and able to respond to a treatment similar to what was done to cause this condition."_

" _So, you are saying reverse brainwashing?" A younger girl seated to the left of the man at the head of the table scoffed. The head man held up a hand to silence her but agreed with her sentiment._

" _I do not think Barnes will agree to that at all"_

" _No, no! I am saying this is a deep, hardwired psychological response. Similar to the repetitive behaviors of obsessive compulsive disorder. The only way I can see to cure it is to reverse engineer what has turned into a learned behavior. Sort of a reverse Pavlov's dog treatment. Not brainwashing but a guided mental recalibration with the patient. This can't be done while he is in cryosleep. A sort of exposure and response prevention therapy that's done with OCD patients."_

 _The man at the head of the table put a hand to his chin in thought. His eyes studied the man who had spoken._

" _And you believe this will work?"_

 _The man shrugged in response. "I cannot say. They only way to know is to try. If we fail, then by all means, place him back in cryofreeze if that's his wish. All I'm saying is it is an option and it should be presented to him."_

" _Would you do this treatment?"_

" _I could. But I think there is one better."_


	2. Chapter 1

**AN: I hope I'm writing T'Challa in character... I hope you like! Please read and review! :)**

Chapter One:

He felt his consciousness returning to him in the midst of the darkness. It was far off, calling to him through a cold mist that swirled through his mind, fogging his thoughts, his feelings, his memories. His body seemed to be somewhere else altogether, numb and distant. But the fog was slowly lifting. His body was returning to him. His mind was clearing. He opened his eyes….

Bucky blinked in the brightness. It took his eyes a few minutes to adjust. He looked around, getting his bearings. There was a pane of double sided glass in front of him. A film of frost clung to the inside surface, rapidly melting into droplets of water than ran down to the floor. Past the glass, everything was blurry. For one, his eyes hadn't fully adjusted to the months' long sleep he had been in; and two, the frost and water droplets were making everything fuzzy.

He was leaning against a hard surface, roughly in a vertical position but slightly reclined. Wherever he was laying was like a coffin. Small, enclosed, barely any room to move. Bucky shifted so his head was held aloft rather than leaning back against the surface he was laying on. His neck muscles felt stiff and sluggish, as if the commands from his brain to his neck were moving through molasses.

There was a clicking sound and a hiss. Then, the glass before him rose a few inches and turned outwards on a hinge. As the freezing air within his chamber met the warm air outside, a vapor cloud formed and fogged his vision even more. When it cleared, Bucky saw a tall, muscular black man standing before him.

When their eyes met, it all came rushing back to him. T'Challa. The king of Wakanda. He had taken him and Steve back to his country after their fight with Howard Stark's son. T'Challa's doctors, a few engineers, and even his younger sister had repaired the broken stub of his metal arm as best as they could. And then Bucky had requested to be put into cryosleep. Thankfully, with Wakanda being one of the most technologically advanced nations in the world, T'Challa's experimental medical facility within the massive mountain that held the vibranium mine had a cryofreeze chamber. That was where Bucky was now. And T'Challa had woken him up.

That could only mean one thing. They must have found a way to erase the brainwashing from his mind. That was Bucky's condition on being taken out of cryosleep. He felt hope and relief swell in his chest. Finally, he would be free of the metaphorical chains HYDRA had him in. He would never be the monster that was the Winter Soldier ever again.

Eagerly, Bucky took a step forward. His body was still recovering from the effects of the cryofreeze. His leg muscles weren't ready to support his weight. As Bucky stepped out of the cryo chamber, he fell forward. T'Challa held out his hands and grabbed Bucky by the shoulders, stabilizing him.

"Woah there my friend," T'Challa said, his voice deep and rich, very loud to Bucky's ears which had heard no sound in… how long? Bucky wasn't sure. That was one of the things he hated about cryosleep. Time had no meaning. Every time HYDRA had brought him out of a cryosleep, he never knew if it had been for months or years. And it never felt like more than a day.

"How long?" Bucky croaked, his voice rough from disuse. He raised his only arm, the one of flesh and bone, and steadied himself against one of T'Challa's thick biceps. The king didn't seem to mind the gesture and helped Bucky over to a hospital bed nearby.

Bucky allowed himself to be forced into a seated position while technicians moved about him, checking his vitals, making sure he was appropriately recovering from the cryosleep.

"Five months," T'challa said in response to Bucky's question.

Bucky frowned. Five months wasn't very long. He was sure it would take years for the doctors and scientists to find a way to erase the effects of the trigger words from his mind. After all, it had taken years for HYDRA to fully brainwash him.

 _Longing. Rusted. Seventeen…_

 _No!_ Bucky thought. Just thinking about the words set of a whirlwind of emotions inside him and reminded him of the monster lurking just beneath the surface of his consciousness.

He focused instead on T'Challa. "So, they've found a way… a way to… fix me?"

T'Challa, who had been smiling warmly at Bucky, dropped his gaze for a moment. When he brought his dark eyes back up to Bucky's, his smile was gone.

"No, we have not."

Bucky immediately sat up straighter. He startled the tech who was attempting to draw blood from the inside of his elbow. The needle popped out and a stream of blood dribbled down Bucky's arm. He didn't even notice.

"What?!" Bucky almost stood but thought better of it. He knew he'd hardly be able to support himself, his legs still feeling like jelly from the cryosleep. "Then why did you wake me? Put me back in! I don't want—"

T'Challa stopped him by putting a hand on his shoulder while the technician hastily took some blood into a vial and placed a bandage on Bucky's wound.

"Easy, Bucky." T'Challa's voice was even and calm. Bucky couldn't help but relax back onto the hospital bed.

"Why did you wake me?" he asked again.

T'Challa released Bucky's shoulder. "We are still working on the… problem of your mind. But some of the doctors had other ideas to try in the meantime and we couldn't very well try them while you were asleep."

Bucky swallowed nervously. "But what if…" He trailed off, fearful to even put into words what could happen. A vision of the red book with the black star, the one they had took from Zemo, the one that held the words that could control him, came to his mind.

T'Challa seemed to read his mind. "The book is still locked in my vaults. No one will have access to it."

That reassured Bucky, but he knew there were other copies of his trigger words out there.

As if reading this thought as well, T'Challa added, "And no one knows you are here. No one seeking to control you would come looking in Wakanda. You are safe here, my friend."

Bucky took a shaky breath, trying to calm himself. T'Challa's words were reassuring but Bucky had thought no one would have found him in Romania. Then again, in Romania he didn't have the help of a king to keep him hidden.

Bucky nodded, clinging to T'Challa's words with hope. "You said… there was another idea?"

T'Challa nodded. "Yes. It has taken some time to put together, otherwise we would have awoken you sooner. I hope you forgive me for awaking you against your orders, but for this treatment to work, you need to be awake."

"What is it?" Bucky's voice was starting to return to normal. The technicians were finished bustling around him, gathering all the vitals they needed. A doctor in a long white coat walked up to T'Challa and spoke to him in Wakandan for a brief moment, before he strode off with a swish of his white coat.

T'Challa turned back to Bucky to answer his question. "Bucky, you have just awoken from months of cryosleep. The doctor has cleared you as being fully out of the freeze but the effects will linger a little while longer. Please, let me escort you to your room where you can rest and recover. In the morning, I will meet with you and we will discuss our plans."

Bucky opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. It was strange how waking up from the deepest of deep sleeps could leave him feeling so tired. And honestly, he was shocked to hear T'Challa offer him rest. Usually, when he was awoken from a cryosleep, he was thrust into a debriefing room and given orders for a mission. He gave T'Challa a nod.

The king of Wakanda smiled. "Good! Then, please, follow me." T'Challa offered a hand to help Bucky stand from the hospital bed. Bucky took it and placed his bare feet against the floor. The stone was cold, but warm compared to the deep freeze that still clung to his limbs. He wobbled on his feet for a moment; as the doctor said, his body was fully awake but not yet back to full function after the effects of the cryosleep. But, he was able to support himself and follow T'Challa out of the cryo room and down the hallway of the medical wing of the mountain.


	3. Chapter 2

**AN: Thank you to my one reviewer and to those who've followed this story! Still a little slow while I set some stuff up here. I hope I'm writing both Bucky and T'Challa in character :/... Anyways, please continue to read and don't forget to review! :) I hope you enjoy!**

Chapter Two:

Bucky followed T'Challa through the winding halls of the vibrainium mountain facility. From the brief time he had been in Wakanda before requesting to be put into cryosleep, Bucky remembered that this mountain not only held the massive mine of vibranium, Wakanda's secret and most prized resource, but it also held many laboratories, whose experiments and inventions were often due to the many, still often not understood, uses of vibranium. One of the labs was the medical facility they had just left. Another was for weapons development. And the largest and most private, was the lab of the king's younger sister, Shuri. Bucky had only met her once. But from the brief and vague memories coming back to him from the time before the cryosleep, he could tell they were heading in the direction of the princess' lab. From what he could remember, Shuri was a genius with an intellect to rival even that of Howard Stark, the smartest man Bucky had ever known.

As Bucky followed the king through the winding and twisting halls of the facility, he soon lost track of what doors they had been through and when they had turned right versus left. His head was still a little muddled from the deep, dreamless cryosleep. But, the longer they walked, the more Bucky's head cleared and the more his body returned to normal. He walked more sure-footed with his shoulders held back rather than hunched over. His vision cleared as well as his mind; which was a double-edged sword. As his mind cleared, he returned to his usual inhuman focus. But that let his mind consider what could happen now that he was awake.

After the fight with Iron Man, Steve had helped Bucky out of the HYDRA facility where they found T'Challa. He had apprehended Zemo. One of the king's hands held Zemo firmly by the upper arm. The other held Bucky's worst nightmare; the little red book with the black star. The book that held the words that could control him. Bucky remembered being exhausted, sore, bloodied and bruised but that was nothing compared to the feeling he had when he saw T'Challa holding the book. He felt the blood drain from his face. Felt his heart quicken. His breath came in desperate gasps. And, despite needing Steve to help carry his weight, Bucky lunged at T'Challa in a desperate grab for the book, reaching out with his left arm, which his brain didn't realize was once again non-existent. He had fallen forward in the snow, landing on his knees, barely keeping himself from face-planting. Steve had rushed forward and put a hand on Bucky's good shoulder, raising the other, ready to fight T'Challa.

The king then told them how he had heard everything. He knew that Bucky was not to blame for his father's death. He knew this was all orchestrated by Zemo. T'Challa told them how he found Zemo about to commit suicide.

"The book," Bucky had choked out. "Give me the book!"

Bucky would have destroyed it then and there. But T'Challa stopped him. What if there was a clue in there to helping free Bucky's mind. If the book was destroyed, the clue would be lost forever. Bucky grudgingly saw the sense in this. But he didn't like it.

After that, the three of them and their prisoner boarded T'Challa's jet and headed to Wakanda. Bucky had no idea what had happened to Tony Stark.

For the entirety of their journey to Wakanda, the little red book was held firmly in Steve's hand. Bucky didn't trust himself to hold it. He certainly didn't trust T'Challa. At least not then. Now, T'Challa was one of the only people he did trust. The only person he trusted more was Steve. And that was saying something. Mere months ago, Bucky hardly remembered Steve. And before that, his sole purpose was to kill him. Bucky still had a lot of missing parts to his memory and a broken mind and body, but the fact that he knew he could trust Steve was a huge improvement.

But the book was always there, in the back of his mind. T'Challa had taken it to his personal vault. He had allowed Bucky to join him, to personally see where the book would be kept. No one knew the code to the vault besides the king himself. Bucky watched as T'Challa had opened it, placed the little red book amongst a treasure trove of other objects, which Bucky paid no attention to, his mind focused solely on the location of the book that could ruin his slowly recovering life. T'Challa had then closed the vault, smiled at Bucky at said, "Put your mind at ease, my friend. The book is safe here. This has been the king's vault for centuries and has never been breached. And I have no intent to control you. You will be safe."

Bucky knew T'Challa was telling the truth. But he still worried. Just because the vault had never been broken into before didn't mean it _couldn't_ be broken into. As the Winter Solider, Bucky had broken into many 'unbreakable' vaults. And there were other copies of the little red book. He wasn't the only Winter Soldier… well, he was now that Zemo had put bullets through the heads of the other five. But that was beside the point. There had been six Winter Soldiers at one point. And all had their own copy of the little red book for their handlers. Bucky wasn't sure where those books were. But if someone did know. And if that someone found him…

Bucky shook his head, clearing his mind of these thoughts. He focused on the halls around him to keep his mind off the book and what might happen if someone found it. The walls of the hall were hewn from the stone of the mountain; rough black stone interlaced with blue from the vibrainium. The floor was metal with a hexagonal pattern pressed into it. Though they were deep in the mountain, the halls were bright with soft, white LED lighting. Doors leading to other parts of the mountain were scattered here and there on their right and left. Occasionally, the stone wall gave way to Plexiglass and Bucky got a view of the huge, gaping mine that ran down the length of the mountain and deep into the earth below. Bullet trains 'whooshed' back and forth along the tracks crisscrossing the expanse of the mine. Within the stone hallways, security cameras dotted the ceiling, watching everything and everyone.

They passed a few people here and there. Wakandan scientists and miners, dressed in varying outfits that ranged from dark business suits, like T'Challa's, to the tribal garb of the ancient Wakandan tribes. As the people passed, they would cross their arms in an 'X' over their chest and give a nod to T'Challa. But for once, no one gave Bucky a second glance. Bucky was relieved. He was tired of the stares, the questioning glances, the frightened attempts to avoid eye contact with him. When he initially arrived in Wakanda, the country knew him as the Winter Soldier and still believed him responsible for the death of T'Challa's father. And even before that, when he was in Romania and trying to keep a low profile, he still got curious looks from more astute observers on the streets. It was these days that he had to make a hasty retreat to his shabby apartment.

But here, once T'Challa had granted him asylum and educated the Wakandan people of Zemo and his role in the death of the former king, Bucky gradually became accepted and the stares, the glances, the fear vanished. He didn't have to walk around in fear that he would be recognized and turned in. He didn't have to walk around feeling judged or that people were avoiding him. He didn't have to watch his back or constantly glance over his shoulder.

They had been walking so long, Bucky had to break the silence. "Where are we going?"

T'Challa looked over at him as he answered. "We are heading to my sister's lab. She has agreed to lend space for you and the doctors involved in your treatment. We have prepared a room for you. It will be small, but you will be comfortable here."

"You're not going to…" Bucky swallowed. "Leave me… unattended?" He dropped his gaze to the floor.

Bucky looked up again when T'Challa placed a hand on his mangled shoulder. "Bucky, you are not my prisoner."

Bucky gave a curt nod but said, "I know. But I don't trust myself."

T'Challa sighed sadly. "If it will ease your mind, I will place a guard at your door."

"Thank you."

They took a final turn into a hallway they ended in a dead end. There were two doors on each side of the short hallway. The doors were all shiny metal and had electronic locks. T'Challa stopped at the first door and pulled up the sleeve of his suit jacket. Bucky saw he wore a curious bracelet of black beads on his right wrist. He watched as T'Challa placed one of these beads near the sensor on the door's electronic lock. There was a beep and a blue light blinked followed by the click of the door's lock opening.

T'Challa pushed the door open and held out his arm, indicating Bucky should enter first.

Bucky took a breath, feeling slightly nervous. He wasn't sure why he was feeling nervous. But he crossed through the threshold and felt his jaw drop. While T'Challa was true that the room was small, it was way more than Bucky expected. There was a small living area with a black leather couch, a low glass coffee table with a flat screen T.V. Attached was a small kitchenette with a mini fridge, a small stove top, and a counter with two bar stools for eating. In the back corner of the room was a bed draped with comfortable looking blankets and pillows. Flanking the bed on either side were a small dresser and a bookcase stuffed with books. At the back of the room, there was a large Plexiglass window that looked out into the vibrainium mine. Natural light filtered in from the mountain's opening hundreds of yards above. There was a door just past the small kitchen area with Bucky thought must lead to a bathroom. Bucky could tell the whole place was hastily converted from a lab into a living space. There was the faint smell of fresh paint. There were holes in the wall where shelves and other fixtures must have hung. The small kitchenette looked completely unused. The entire space was roughly the size of his apartment in Romania but it was immensely more homey than his previous living arrangements.

T'Challa had followed Bucky into the room. "I hope you will be comfortable here. I wish we could have given you more."

Bucky turned to face the king. "This is… too much." Bucky felt overwhelmed. He hadn't lived somewhere so… normal since… well since before the war.

T'Challa gave a shake of his head. "Bucky, you are not our prisoner."

Bucky took a breath and looked around the room slowly. He gave a few long nods. "Yeah, yeah. Okay." If Bucky hoped to free himself of the Winter Soldier and be 'normal,' then he had to live normally. He nodded again, more assured. "Okay but, the guard. Just in case."

T'Challa's smile turned into a frown but he knew not to push Bucky too far. The man didn't trust himself. "All right. For now. Tomorrow, we will discuss the treatment plan that my doctors have proposed. Now, you should rest and relax. If you need anything," T'Challa paused and reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a cell phone and placed it in Bucky's hand. "Just let me know."

Bucky nodded a third time. "And the guard?"

T'Challa sighed. "Yes, because you insist. I will send someone up straight away. But Bucky, please. Steve would not want you to live as a criminal."

That got through to Bucky. He ran his hand through his hair. "Alright."

"I will see you in the morning." T'Challa gave Bucky one last reassuring smile and excused himself from the room.

Once the king's footsteps faded from Bucky's ears, he knew he was truly alone. His hearing had been augmented by the super solider serum given to him so long ago, so he knew that if he couldn't hear T'Challa's footsteps, the king really was out of range. Bucky breathed a heavy sigh and for the third time, looked around the room. Though the places were roughly the same size, this apartment was a vast contrast to the sparse studio apartment in Romania. The furniture was well kept, the floors and counter tops clean, and the place was bright and comforting. Bucky saw that his backpack, along with the very few belongings he had brought with him to Wakanda, had been placed on top of the low bookshelf beside the bed. His notebooks with his memories were in that backpack. He wondered how it had gotten there. The last place he remembered having it was when he was arrested in Romania.

Bucky walked over to the bookshelf, opened up the backpack and pulled out one of the notebooks; the one that held his recent memories. He took it over to the counter at the kitchenette and sat on one of the bar stools. Bucky pulled his pen from the spine of the notebook, opened up to the first blank page, and began hurriedly scribbling down the events since Romania. He glanced at the clock on the microwave across from him as he began writing. It was 9:18 in the morning. He kept on writing.

When Bucky looked at the clock again, it was 11:37. His eyes widened in shock. He hadn't realized he'd been writing as long. But now that he saw the time, he noticed the cramp in his hand. The super soldier serum may allow him to endure a lot of pain, but the cramp in his hand was annoying. And so were the hunger pains in his stomach. Bucky didn't even realize he was hungry. During cryosleep, he didn't need to eat or even be supplemented with intravenous nutrients; the low temperature prevented the need for energy in the form of food. But now he was starving.

Flexing his fingers to rid himself of the writer's cramp, Bucky slid off the bar stool and walked around the counter to the kitchenette proper. He opened the refrigerator and was only mildly surprised that it was fully stocked. He grabbed an apple from a bowl of fruit on the second shelf and walked back over to the counter. He intended to continue writing while he ate. But as he sat down, he remembered he now only had one hand. He hadn't been without his metal arm for long before being put in to cryosleep. He still wasn't used to not having it. Which was weird. When he escaped HYDRA after the fall of the helicarriers, one of the things he hated most was his metal arm. Not only was it a constant reminder of what he had done and what HYDRA had done to him, but it gave him away as the Winter Soldier. He had to make sure it was covered no matter where he went to keep someone from recognizing him and turning him in.

Bucky finished his apple quickly, eager to get back to writing. He wrote for another hour or so, until he was caught up to the present. He shut that notebook and then retrieved his second one. This notebook held his memories from before HYDRA. Memories of before the war. Memories of Steve. Memories of the Bucky he used to be. This notebook was frustratingly empty. There was no rhyme or reason to the things he remembered. He could recall Steve's mother's name but he didn't know his own mother's name. He flipped through the pages of scribbled memories trying to trigger more to come back. But nothing did.

Sighing, Bucky closed this notebook as well. He stood from the stool and stretched. Grabbing the two notebooks, Bucky walked over and put them back inside his backpack. His notebooks were always in his backpack with a few other essentials, ready to grab and go if he was discovered. Bucky paused as he zipped up the backpack. He shouldn't feel like he had to be prepared to flee at a moment's notice. He was safe here. But he wasn't quite ready to let his guard down completely. Zipping up his backpack, he sighed. The sigh turned into a yawn.

Bucky was still tired from the effects of the cryosleep. Crossing over to the couch, Bucky plopped down. It was very comfortable and he wasn't used to sleeping on something so soft. He placed his hand over his eyes, shutting out the overhead lighting and the light pouring in from the window. Within minutes, Bucky was asleep.


	4. Chapter 3

**AN AT END OF CHAPTER THIS TIME.**

Chapter Three:

Sleeping was always dangerous for Bucky. After the fall of the helicarriers, he had never slept more than a few hours at a time. And never for a whole night for fear someone from HYDRA or SHIELD would find him. And when he did sleep, it was fitful. He either had nightmares about what HYDRA had done to him or it was the recurring nightmare about falling from a train which he still didn't fully understand. He knew Steve was associated with that dream and some part of his brain knew it was actually a memory rather than a nightmare. But it was one of those memories that hadn't come back to him yet. Even worse were the other nightmares. When he wasn't having nightmares about what happened to him, he had nightmares about what _he_ had done to people; his acts as the Winter Soldier. And sometimes, though rare, he would revert back to the Winter Soldier, the brainwashing that had been done to him ran that deep in his mind. Those were the scariest nights. Nights when he would wake up not where he had fallen asleep. Nights when he would wake up with a gun or a knife in his hand, speaking Russian, or German, or one of the other languages HYDRA had forced him to learn. So he didn't like to sleep. Sleeping usually left him feeling guilty, or scared, or ashamed depending on what he had dreamt about. Rarely did sleeping leave him feeling rested as it should. So, Bucky avoided sleeping as much as he could. At least it was relatively easy. The super soldier serum that Zola had used on him, though experimental, was nearly, _nearly,_ identical to Steve's. And because of that, he didn't need much sleep to function.

It was a shock to Bucky when he woke up from his nap on the couch to realize he hadn't dreamt at all. And he felt rested and refreshed. He pushed himself up into a sitting position with his one arm. His hair was a tousled mess and he realized he hadn't had a shower since emerging from the cryo chamber. Well, time to explore the bathroom then.

Bucky stretched, stood from the couch, and wiped the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles. Glancing at the clock on the microwave as he headed towards the bathroom, he noticed it was early in the evening. His nap had been a good four hours which was usually longer than he slept most nights. Bucky paused in his walk to the bathroom and looked around at the room as if looking for something. It felt vastly unfamiliar to have slept for so long, so peacefully. It was almost as if he was looking for someone hiding amongst his furniture that might have drugged him to make him sleep for so long. Or like he was looking for some kind of sign that he had had a flashback to the Winter Soldier and left a path of destruction to some new horror that he had committed.

When he saw nothing, he heaved a heavy sigh.

 _Stop looking over your shoulder,_ he thought. _Normal people don't act like this when they wake up from a nap._

 _But I'm not normal._

 _But I'll learn to be._

Bucky physically shook himself and finished his short walk to the bathroom. Flipping on the light, he saw that the fixtures were all chrome and the place was spotless. He was pretty sure his apartment in Romania had black mold growing in the bottom of the shower stall. This was a vast improvement. He stripped out of his white sweats and tank and turned on the shower faucet. When the bathroom was all steamy and warm, Bucky stepped into the shower. He simply stood for a few minutes, letting the soothing, warm water run down his skin.

He still had bruises, cuts, and scrapes from his battle with Iron Man. The cryosleep had essentially put him in suspended animation, meaning even his enhanced healing abilities were paused. So, even though it had been almost half a year since that fight, he was still healing. He would probably be all healed by tomorrow night. The warm water felt good on his injuries and it also loosened up his muscles, stiff from the rigid way in which he had slept in the cryo chamber.

After a good five minutes of letting the water run over him, Bucky reached over for the soap. He washed his face and neck, working down to his chest and back. He paused in his cleaning, letting the suds rinse down around his feet and swirl down the drain in a little whirlpool. He blinked against the spray of water on his face and looked at the little white bar of soap in his hand. How was he going to wash his arm? He didn't have another hand to use.

He felt a moment of panic disproportionate to the situation. He knew in the back of his mind that this was unrealistic anxiety fueled by his post-traumatic stress syndrome and that this really was nothing to be panicking over. But that didn't stop the increase in his heart rate. The cold, clammy feeling in his chest despite the warm water cascading down around him. The gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Bucky's fingers clenched around the soap in his hand as he tried to calm down. The slippery bar of soap shot out of his fist, hit the wall of the shower, and fell to the floor.

 _Damn it._ Bucky forced his eyes closed and made himself take several deep, even breaths until he was calm. He opened his eyes again when the feeling of anxiety released and his chest and stomach unclenched. By now the water was cold, but Bucky hardly felt the temperature change. His body's normal thermal regulation had switched gears to keep him comfortably warm; another gift of the experimental serum from Zola.

Bucky reached down and retrieved the soap. He washed the rest of himself, ignoring his one arm for the time being. When he finished, he set the soap aside and grabbed the bottle of shampoo. Again he paused.

Normally, he would squeeze out some shampoo from the bottle with this right hand, into his metal left hand. And then with both hands, wash his hair. But he only had one hand now. So instead, Bucky squeezed the shampoo directly onto his head. He shivered when the cold blob met his skull. He replaced the shampoo bottle and reached up to scrub. But in the time it took him to put the shampoo bottle back on its little shelf in the shower, the shampoo had dripped down his head, onto his face, and into his eyes.

 _Son of a bitch!_ He swore to himself as the liquid stung his eyes.

Bucky grit his teeth and growled audibly as he scrubbed his head and rinsed the shampoo lather from his eyes.

At this point, regardless of the super soldier serum, Bucky was getting cold. And he still had to figure out how to wash his one arm. He shivered and grabbed the soap again.

 _Okay, just think this through. You know four languages. You can disassemble and reassemble any automatic firearm in less than five minutes. You can figure out how to wash your own arm._

He still had a nub of a shoulder. He put the soap against it and then moved his forearm up and down, applying a little bit of pressure as he did so to keep the bar of soap in place. But the soap shot up into the air from between his right arm and left shoulder. It bounced off the ceiling and thudded down in the bottom of the bathtub again.

Bucky let out another growl. He grabbed the soap again and glared at it as if it was the cause of all the misfortune in his life. Thinking of another idea, he placed the soap on his right shoulder this time and held it in place with his cheek. At least this way he was able to clean his upper arm fairly well. He took the soap in his hand and reaching underneath his arm, he was able to wash his arm pit, though he felt rather like a monkey while he did so.

Getting colder by the second, Bucky couldn't figure out a way to wash between his wrist and elbow. He tried holding the soap against the remains of his left shoulder again. And again, the soap fell. He bent down to get it, stood up too quickly, and bumped his head against the shelf holding the shampoo. The bottle of shampoo fell and landed on the top of his foot.

No sooner had Bucky yelled, "Ow!" and grabbed his head in pain, he yelled again and, balancing on one foot, reached down to massage his hurt foot.

Bucky growled again, grabbed the shampoo and put it back, and grabbed the soap one more time. Furiously, he rubbed it against his stomach, creating a cloud of bubbles. Then he put the soap on the shelf beside the shampoo and rubbed his arm against the bubbles on his stomach, deciding it would have to be good enough to clean his arm.

He angrily shut off the water and stepped out of the tub. With an angry thrust, he closed the shower curtain behind him. Only, due to his super strength, the force of the thrust broke the shower curtain rings, causing the shower curtain to fall over his head.

Bucky sighed. _I wonder if Steve has these problems._ He pulled the curtain off his body and threw it in the tub for now. He'd put it back up later when he calmed down. He swiped the towel off the rack and clumsily wrapped it around his waist.

Leaving the bathroom, Bucky left a trail of wet foot prints across the floor as he crossed over to the dresser beside the bed. He had a moment of embarrassment, realizing he was standing in front of a nearly wall-sized window, in nothing but a towel. But he realized that this was a) one-way glass and b) there was no one out there to see him. This window looked over a leg of the train track that crisscrossed the mine and the trains were self-operating. Also, there were no other windows level with his.

His hair dripped down his shoulders and, shaking his head like a dog, he sprinkled his room with water droplets. Bucky pulled open a dresser drawer, not really expecting to find anything, but he figured he'd at least check. If someone had brought his backpack here, maybe they brought his clothes as well. Though, he didn't have much, and what he had worn to Wakanda after the fight with Stark was a ruined mess.

But, to his amazement, the drawer was full. Bucky pulled one drawer out after another. They were all full of clothes. Pants, shirts. Jackets, socks. Everything he needed. Bucky let his towel drop down around his feet and eagerly pulled out a pair of jeans and a red t-shirt. He put them on despite the water droplets still clinging to his skin. They fit perfectly; well, except for the left sleeve which hung limply over his shoulder, irritating him. Bucky's eyes were wide in shock. Who had done this? And for _him,_ of all people. He didn't deserve this.

His shocked expression was reflected back to him in the mirror above the dresser. And he saw, tucked in the corner of the mirror, a folded piece of paper. He reached out and grabbed it. Holding the paper between his fingers, he flipped it open with his thumb. Neat, cursive writing sprawled across the paper.

 _Bucky, Steve and I figured you were about his size. We knew you must not have many belongings, so please, accept these from us. I hope they are your style.  
-T'Challa_

Bucky swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. He reread the note and his eyes lingered on Steve's name. Steve knew him but he barely knew Steve. And not so long ago Bucky had tried to kill him; almost succeeded. Bucky put the note down on the top of his dresser feeling uncomfortable. He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve _any_ of this. Not after all he had done.

 _No. Stop it. That wasn't you. That was HYDRA._

Bucky swallowed again, this time in an attempt to calm himself. He told himself that a thousand times a day. He told himself that every time he woke up in a cold sweat after a nightmare about one of the murders he had committed. He told himself that over and over. But no matter how often he said it, he didn't believe it.

Bucky picked up the hairbrush on the top of the dresser to distract himself. He brushed his wet hair until it was under some semblance of control. Then he picked up his used towel and put it in the hamper next to the bathroom door.

Then, his stomach growled loudly. That one apple from earlier seemed like ages ago. At least food was a good distraction from feeling guilty. Bucky turned and strode back across the room to the kitchenette.

Bucky riffled through the cupboards until he found something that sounded good; a box of macaroni and cheese. He stood holding the box for a moment, glancing from the stove to the box. He hadn't cooked in… what… seventy something years. He was always given food at HYDRA. Military ration, tasteless stuff.

Bucky took a breath. He would have to rely on pre-war Bucky to get him through using the stove. He read the box, taking in the directions. Bucky filled a pot with water from the sink and turned to the stove. It looked simple enough. He placed the pot on a burner and managed to turn it on without igniting anything on fire. He smiled, pleased with himself. Bucky poured in the noodles. Then, he added a pinch of salt. He stopped abruptly and watched the noodles in the bubbling, boiling water. The directions on the box didn't call for a pinch of salt. A memory tugged at the back of his mind.

He was maybe six or seven years old. He had stayed home from school, sick with strep throat. His throat hurt too much to eat anything. He watched as his mom made macaroni on the stove top; his favorite. He always ate it when he was sick. The warm cheesy noodles soothed his throat. His mom smiled as she stirred in a pinch of salt. _So the noodles don't stick to the bottom of the pan_. His mom had said that. His mom. Winnifred. But everyone called her Winnie.

Bucky nearly vaulted over the kitchen counter and ran to the bookshelf where his backpack still lay. His macaroni was completely forgotten. He hastily opened his notebook and snatched up his pen. In a messy scrawl, he hurriedly wrote down his memory before he forgot it. Or before it was taken away from him.

When he was finished he re-read it over and over. His mom. Winnie. He finally remembered his mom. He felt a stinging in his eyes and for a moment he thought he still had shampoo in his eyes. Bucky reached up and wiped his eyes, surprised when his hand came back damp. He gave a huff and blinked furiously. He was _not_ crying. He felt embarrassed. But he remembered his mom. He desperately wanted to remember her ever since he had told Steve his memory about Sarah Rogers. He remembered his mom. He remembered Winnie. It felt bittersweet. He finally remembered and it was as if he had done something to make her proud. But if she knew what he had done….

Bucky felt the stinging in his eyes again. He blinked until it went away. He would not think of his mother and of the Winter Soldier together. He would not spoil his memories of his her with thoughts about the Winter Soldier.

He gently shut his notebook. He picked it up and managed to tuck it under his one arm. Holding it as if it was his life, he headed back to the stove and finished his dinner. Bucky poured some of the finished macaroni and cheese into a bowl and headed over to the couch. He sat down, crossed his legs, and set the bowl on the coffee table for a moment. Beside it, he placed the notebook. He opened it up to the page with his most recent memory and picked up his bowl. Balancing the bowl in his lap, Bucky enjoyed his dinner while he read his memory again and again and again.

 **AN: Thank you for the reviews! Especially OnYourLeft107; your reviews always make me smile :) Thanks for the follows as well! So, I decided to put my AN at the end cuz I didn't want to spoil anything. So the shower scene, as much as I liked writing Bucky showering (hehehe ;) ) I hope it didn't sound too stupid... I was literally standing here trying to figure out how I'd wash my arm if I only had the one. So apparently, from my research, Bucky's mom's name really is Winnifred but I made up that they called her Winnie. And technically boxed mac and cheese was invented in 1937 so Bucky would have had to have been like 20 when he first had it but I imagine something similar would have been around when Bucky was a kid so I hope it works. And now I want some mac and cheese. I hope you like and please review! :)**


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

After eating his dinner, Bucky safely tucked his notebook of memories back into his backpack. Then he snatched up his empty macaroni and cheese bowl and walked back into the kitchen area. Bucky set the bowl in the sink, along with the used pot and mixing spoon. Now, he stood glaring at the stainless-steel sink. He hadn't done something as simple as wash dishes in ages. Sure, he knew _how_ to wash dishes. But with two hands.

Bucky sighed through gritted teeth. He grabbed the bottle of green dish soap beside the sink and squirted some over the dishes. He turned on the faucet and grabbed the sponge that sat on the counter top beside the bottle of soap. As he watched the water mix with the soap and fill the sink with suds, he flipped the sponge over and over in his palm, wondering how in the hell he was supposed to do this one-handed.

When the sink was full, Bucky shut off the tap. He plunged his hand and the sponge into the warm water and began the task of cleaning the dishes. It took far longer than it should have and involved what Bucky assumed was more swearing than was typical for the average dish washer. The end result was a small pile of clean dishes. And dirty dish water on the counter tops. And the floor. And the cupboards. And Bucky's clean shirt. Bucky let out an irritated growl and pulled his shirt over his head. He used the soiled article of clothing to clean up the water on the counters and cupboards. Then he dropped the shirt onto the floor and used his foot to push the shirt around the floor, mopping up the water that had spilled onto the floor. When he was finished, he mumbled a swear under his breath, bent down, and picked up the only remaining dry corner of the shirt with his thumb and index finger. He deposited the dirty shirt in his hamper with the towel from his shower. Bucky paused, glancing at his dresser, considering getting another shirt.

When he had initially looked through the drawers, he didn't see anything sleeveless. And it irritated him having the left sleeve hang limply at his side. So instead, Bucky abandoned thoughts of putting on a shirt and instead decided to remain only in his jeans.

Bucky instead went back to the bookshelf. He pulled out the notebook with his more recent memories and headed back to the counter. Bucky felt compelled to record even his recent memories because of the constant fear of being wiped and forgetting everything again. Not only did this notebook contain his recent memories, it also contained his memories as the Winder Soldier. He didn't remember everything he had done under that name, since HYDRA repeatedly wiped him between missions. But it was slowly coming back. Bucky flipped to a page near the back of the notebook. This page held nothing but a list of names. Howard and Maria Stark were among them.

This was the list of the people Bucky had killed.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, letting it out slowly.

 _No. The_ Winter Soldier _killed these people. HYDRA._

A small voice in the back of his mind fought to say, "But you _are_ the Winter Soldier."

Bucky fought back to ignore it. Instead, he wrote down another name.

 _Jasper Sitwell._

The name had come to him while he was washing dishes. He looked at it for a moment trying to remember the moment. But he couldn't. It was fuzzy. He just knew the name. Bucky wasn't quite sure why he kept a list of the names of the people the Winter Soldier had killed. He couldn't explain it but he felt like he had to do it. Bucky knew it probably wasn't healthy and didn't help his PTSD but he felt compelled to do it.

He looked at Jasper Sitwell's name one more time before closing the notebook. He slid the pen into the spiral spine and picked the notebook up. He wandered back to his backpack and placed this notebook inside, with its twin; the notebook that contained his pre-WWII memories.

Bucky stood beside at the bookshelf, not sure what to do with himself now. His eyes grazed over the books on the three low shelves. It was getting late into the evening, but his enhanced sight could still read the titles in the dim light that spilled into the room from the window. There was a wide variety, from what Bucky could tell. There were current novels such as _The Great Gatsby_ and _Of Mice and Men_. Bucky caught himself. No, these were "current" anymore. This wasn't the 1940's. He was living in 2017 now. These were _classics_. Bucky sighed, feeling extremely old despite the fact that he was physiologically more like a man in his late 20's rather than a ninety-something-year-old man. He shook his head and looked at the rest of the titles.

There were a few books that truly were classics, even if Bucky had been living in the 40's. The complete works of William Shakespeare, a book of classic fairy tales.

There were also more educational and practical titles. A book on the history of Wakanda and the royal family. A book about home remedies for common health conditions. A few encyclopedias. And several world history books. These piqued Bucky's interest. Maybe they would help him place himself in the world without the skewed filter of his Winter Soldier memories.

Bucky picked up a book titled _The Silk Roads: A New History of the World_. Bucky dropped the book onto his bed and climbed up after. He reached across to the dresser where a lamp sat beside the mirror and switched it on. Then, laying on his side, head and arm-less shoulder propped up on his pillows, he flipped open the book.

It started with things as early as the Roman Empire so Bucky flipped ahead until he found the chapter on World War II. He would start there. Bucky began scanning the pages. Another benefit of the super solider serum was that he could take in large amounts of information at a quick rate. His eyes flew over the words and he flipped through the pages faster than the average person. He read late into the night, oblivious to the time.

There was a knocking. One, two, three knocks one after the other. They were quiet but to his enhanced hearing, it was as if the sounds were right beside his ear. Bucky shot up in his bed, eyes wide. An open book fell from his chest and landed beside him, pages askew. His breathing came in quick, alarmed gasps. His heart beat frantically against his chest. His one hand flew to the bed's surface, groping around under the pillows for his gun. But there was nothing there. That was when Bucky remembered that he had made them take his guns away when he arrived in Wakanda. He felt panicked, his stomach twisting in anxiety and fear.

The knocking repeated itself. Again, three knocks one after the other. As the sound met his ears, Bucky felt himself relax. Someone coming to kill him wouldn't knock first. He took in the sight around him, realizing he was in his room in the mountain in Wakanda. He relaxed even further, his body physically releasing the panic that had seized him. He wasn't in danger. He was safe. He felt his breathing even out, his heart slow, and his stomach unclench. Still, as the knocks sounded again and Bucky rose from the bed, he approached the door with cautious hesitation.

Bucky realized he must have fallen asleep while he had been reading. He didn't know how late he had stayed up but he had fallen asleep without even closing the book. And he was still in his jeans from the previous evening.

Reaching the door, Bucky pulled it open slowly, his body slightly tensed. He couldn't quite release all the fear and caution he had been living with since his escape from the helicarrier crash.

When the door was pulled fully open, he saw King T'Challa standing there. The king's hand was slightly raised and he was pulling out the strange beaded bracelet Bucky had seen the previous morning. There was a worried look on the king's face, but it vanished quickly when he saw Bucky pulling the door open. The king replaced it with a warm smile. But it had been there long enough for Bucky to see it and realize that, despite his reassurances that he was safe here, T'Challa had been worried when Bucky didn't open the door right away. Worried that he had become the Winter Soldier again.

But Bucky didn't get to dwell on this. T'Challa's smile widened as he said, "Good morning, Bucky!" He gave a nod. "How was your first night in your new accommodations?"

Despite the look of worry T'Challa had a moment before, Bucky could feel the warmness and genuineness in the king's words and he felt himself relax again. He stepped aside and let the king into the room.

"It was… fine." He said in answer to T'Challa's question. His mind trailed to the disastrous shower and the dish washing debacle.

T'Challa nodded again. "Good, good. Now, I am sure you are eager to hear why I woke you from the cryosleep. About the new treatment plan?"

Bucky had almost forgotten about that. Almost. He followed T'Challa over to the couch. They each sat at one end. Bucky briefly wondered if he was supposed to offer T'Challa coffee or tea or something, what with him being a king and all. Or if he should have bowed upon seeing the king at his door. But as T'Challa relaxed into the couch, Bucky felt silly for thinking it. He listened intently as T'Challa began talking.

"As you know, Steve and I formed a group of Wakandan doctors and scientists to try and solve the…" T'Challa hesitated. "Problem of your mind. One of our doctors had a brilliant theory that warranted testing. But he declined to be the doctor to treat you, stating there was one better. Of course, we were hesitant to bring anyone outside of Wakanda in on the project. As you know, to the rest of the world, we are a poor third-world country. But the man that was suggested to treat you is the single best doctor in his field. A pioneer and innovator in the form of treatment that was suggested. We had to bring him in. Being that I am the king of Wakanda, it was easy for me to gain audience with him and implore him to come treat you. He was, needless to say, shocked upon arriving in Wakanda. But he is a trustworthy man. He will not give away our secrets. And he will not give away yours."

T'Challa gave another pause and looked intently at Bucky. Bucky could feel the king imploring him to trust him. Bucky bit the inside of his lip, a nervous habit he had developed since being freed from HYDRA. He had his doubts. Strong, unyielding doubts. It would be all too easy for someone outside the little circle of himself, Steve, T'Challa, and the cryo techs to rat him out to Stark or the U.N. or anyone who was hunting him. Every fiber of Bucky's being screamed at him that letting anyone else know he was in Wakanda was a bad idea. But Bucky needed to be free of the control HYDRA had on his mind.

Bucky nodded and T'Challa continued.

"The theory is that we need to essentially re-wire your mind rather than perform some surgery or develop some drug. Something that couldn't be done while you were in cryosleep. The doctor that was suggested, the outsider that I brought into Wakanda is Doctor Thaddeus Grace. He is a world-renowned psychiatrist. The best in his field. Leader in research and patient care. Not only does he deal in drug therapy but he has also been a pioneer in psychotherapy as well. I do not know all the details but he has developed a treatment plan that will hopefully…" T'Challa trailed off.

"Fix my head?" Bucky finished for him.

T'Challa nodded.

Bucky thought about what T'Challa had said. He felt his stomach twisting with apprehension as he thought. The last encounter he had with a psychiatrist was when Zemo had masqueraded as Dr. Broussard and used the trigger words on him. He shuddered at the thought. And even before Zemo had begun to say the trigger words, Bucky hadn't been receptive to being interrogated by a psychiatrist.

But this wasn't an interrogation. This was a way to help him.

Bucky inhaled deeply and held it for a second before letting it out slowly. He nodded as if to reassure himself of his decision. "Okay. So, when do we start?"

 **AN: Thank you for the follows, favorites, and reviews :) I had to do a lot of research for this chapter to make sure things made sense which isn't like me... usually I just kinda write. The book Bucky's reading is actually a legit history book, haha. And Dr. Broussard is the name of the psychiatrist that Zemo killed in CA:CW (I didn't know the character had a name!) Again, I hope I'm writing T'Challa in character and I hope my version of Wakanda is at least a little canon... my knowledge of Marvel is limited to the cinematic universe so I hope I'm not sounding stupid... anyways, Dr. Thaddeus Grace is the first of my OCs in this story. You'll get to meet him next chapter! And hopefully my other OC as well. I hope you enjoy! Please review (reviews make me want to write faster ;) ) Also, if any of you read Adventures in Avenger Sitting and/or Rebirth, I'm hoping to update those too. I think I'm gonna keep ANs at the end from now on so I don't spoil anything in the new posts... Anyways, peace out! ;P**


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

Bucky had hurriedly gotten himself fully clothed and ran a comb through his tangled locks. He now trailed behind T'Challa as the king led him down the hallway outside his room. Bucky felt off balance without his metal left arm. He constantly felt like he was veering slightly to the right, his body being heavier on that side. He had felt similar to this a long, long time ago….

He had just awoken from a surgery he hadn't consented to. His limbs felt heavy with anesthesia and his mind felt foggy. His eyes blinked the bleariness away and he saw he was laying in a stark, white surgery suite. There were doctors all around him in blindingly white coats. They were speaking a language he had heard only once before, when he and the 107th had been captured and taken to Zola's research facility. German. Bucky felt his stomach twist as he realized he had been captured by the Germans again. The Nazis. HYDRA. He vaguely remembered waking in the snow; cold and in pain and looking up into Zola's face.

One of the surgeons was leaning over him on his left side, mumbling something in German and scribbling on a clipboard. Something didn't feel right. His mind flashed back to his fall; he didn't remember most of it but he remembered the pain. The horrible, agonizing pain when he slammed against the cliff face and the jagged rock ripped his arm from his body.

The HYDRA surgeons and scientists were still talking to one another, not aware that he had awakened. His breathing was rapidly increasing. He didn't feel any pain from what was left of his left shoulder but there was something there…. Something connected to it that he felt but at the same time didn't. Something that was foreign and shouldn't be there. He lost his arm, he remembered he did. But he felt something there, like a phantom. He steeled himself and looked down on his left side.

He felt his breath catch in his throat. There was a metal arm attached to the nub of his shoulder. Shakily, he raised his hands. One flesh, bone, and muscle. The other cold, hard metal.

His heart raced. He felt panicked. What had they done to him?

He heard, as if from some far-off place, Zola's voice. He heard his name.

He looked up and saw the surgeon that had been scribbling on his clipboard. He was reaching over, reaching for the metal arm.

In one swift movement that someone just coming out of anesthesia shouldn't be capable of, he clamped his metal fingers around the surgeon's neck. The man let out a gurgled scream and clawed at the metal fingers closing off his windpipe. He squeezed and the body went limp.

Around him all chaos broke loose. There were men yelling in German and running around the room. He heard Zola yell his name.

He swung his legs off the surgical cot, dropping the dead HYDRA surgeon on the floor. He stood and felt himself sway to his left, the weight of his metal appendage throwing him off balance. He took a step and then another, swaggering to the left, not accustomed to the added weight on his left side. A hand grasped at his back. He lifted his left arm and thrust it behind him. He heard an "oof" as it connected with whoever was trying to grab him and sent the man stumbling halfway across the room.

Then, he felt the pierce of the sedative dart at the nape of his neck. He turned, eyes wide, and saw Zola holding the dart gun. The man had a terrified look in his eyes but as the sedative took over, a sly, evil smile took over his face.

He slumped to the floor. The brainwashing and the torture came soon after….

"Bucky? Are you ready, my friend?"

Bucky was jolted from his memories. His breath was coming in quick gasps and his heart was racing. With wide eyes, he looked wildly around, still seeing the scene of the surgery suite from the 1940's. His one hand was clenched in a fist, his fingernails digging into the palm of his hand. Bucky swallowed his panic; pushing down the instinct to run, to attack, to defend himself from the HYDRA monsters. His wild-eyed gaze landed on T'Challa and he swallowed again.

"I… I'm sorry. Wh-what?" he stammered. Bucky hadn't ever remembered that much of the surgery that gave him his metal arm before. It terrified him but at the same time it meant he was regaining control over his mind and his memories and he wanted to write it down before he forgot. But he was here with T'Challa to meet the doctor who would help him get rid of the brainwashing.

"Are you ready to meet the doctor? You seem nervous. We can wait another day if you'd like." T'Challa looked at Bucky with concern.

Bucky took a deep breath to steady himself. He uncurled the fingers of his fist. The images of the HYDRA surgical suite from his past vanished and he realized they were still in the same hall as his apartment. T'Challa had led him to the far end. They were standing in front of another metal door with the same type of electronic lock that was on Bucky's own door. The only difference in this door was that there was a tiny peephole in the center, at eye-level. A removeable name plaque was fastened to the door above the peephole with the name _Thaddeus Grace, MD, PhD_ currently in place.

"No, I'm fine." Bucky said in a low voice. "I just… had a memory."

Bucky and T'Challa stood in silence for a moment. Bucky stared at the door, readying himself to enter.

"I'm okay," he said to T'Challa. "Let's go."

T'Challa nodded even though Bucky wasn't looking at him to see it. The king stepped forward and knocked on the door. Again, three knocks.

From within the room behind the door, a deep voice responded. "Come in."

T'Challa pulled out his beaded bracelet again, and Bucky now wondered how exactly this weird piece of jewelry was able to open the electronic locks of the doors. The king opened the door but stayed off to the side, indicating Bucky should be the first to enter.

With another deep breath, Bucky entered. His fist was clenched again, this time with apprehension rather than aggression. He felt T'Challa follow in after him.

The room they entered was the same size as Bucky's own. Again, the room looked liked it was hastily put together. The stone floor was covered in rugs that were soft underfoot and a rich deep purple color. The walls were lined with mahogany bookshelves that stretched up to the ceiling, stuffed with all kinds of books, binders, and files. Beside the door was a plum, velvet couch. And in the middle of the room was a large mahogany desk. There was a computer monitor, a lamp, and various office supplies on the glass covered desk top; all of which were neatly arranged. A brass name plate sat in the center of the desk with _Dr. Thaddeus Grace_ in black swirling script. Sitting at the desk, in a high-backed leather chair, was a man who looked to be in his late seventies, though still fit and healthy. The top of his head was bald with a ring of snow white hair above his ears. What he lacked in hair on his head, he made up for with his beard which hung down onto the top part of his chest. It too was white and looked so soft Bucky had the ridiculous desire to know what it felt like. His face was wrinkled and he had bushy gray eyebrows that overhung warm brown eyes which shone from behind rimless, square spectacles. He was dressed in a crisp chocolate brown suite that matched his eyes, with a hunter green tie.

The man looked up from where he was writing at his desk. His expression was one of stone. Bucky's eyes met the man's and he stood transfixed, unsure what to think. The man exuded a sense of calm and peacefulness but at the same time he was imposing and intimidating.

Beside Bucky, T'Challa held out a hand, indicating the man. "Bucky, this is Dr. Thaddeus Grace; distinguished psychiatrist and acclaimed mental health researcher."

T'Challa nodded from Dr. Grace to Bucky. "Dr. Grace, this is Sergeant James Barnes, though he prefers Bucky."

Dr. Grace rose from his chair. His eyes surveyed Bucky for a brief moment before his stone-like expression dissolved into a smile. He held out a wrinkled hand. "Ah, finally. Sergeant Barnes. I finally get to meet the patient they dragged me half a world away to treat." He let out a chuckle.

Bucky held out his hand and shook the doctor's.

"Allow me to introduce you to my resident physician. She'll be assisting me in your case if that's alright? Dr. Alexa Jane Short."

Dr. Grace gestured to his right. That was when Bucky noticed the fourth person in the room that he hadn't even realized was there. He turned and saw a younger woman sitting in a small plastic chair that was pulled up to the corner of Dr. Grace's desk where a laptop was precariously perched. The woman was bent over her lap, a notebook balanced open on her knee, in which she was scribbling notes. At the sound of her name, she looked up. She had long, silky black hair that framed her face with bangs that hung down into her bright green eyes. Her expression was flat until her eyes fell on Bucky. Her lips parted slightly and her eyes widened as if in surprise. The look didn't last long. She closed her mouth and smiled.

Dr. Grace continued. "Alexa, this is our patient, Sergeant Barnes."

Dr. Short nodded at Bucky and looked back down at her notebook, the smile still on her face.

Next to Bucky, T'Challa smiled. "Excellent. Now that you are acquainted, I will leave the three of you to discuss Bucky's treatment." T'Challa gripped Bucky's shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. Bucky looked up from where he was still watching Dr. Short and met T'Challa's gaze.

"Dr. Grace will escort you back to your room whenever you are ready to return." T'Challa slid a bracelet, similar to the one he himself wore, from the pocket of his suit jacket. He held it out to Bucky. "Please. You are not my prisoner. This will let you in and out of your room. You should feel free to come and go as you please."

Bucky swallowed nervously and looked down at the bracelet. He reached out with a slightly shaky hand and hesitantly took it. "But… what if…"

"The guard is still there," T'Challa said, though his voice hardened as if in displeasure. Bucky looked up from the bracelet in his hand and met T'Challa's gaze again. "He will know to look for you if you do not return to your room."

Bucky nodded, a little relieved. But the thought of when he almost escaped in the helicopter tugged at his mind. If Steve hadn't pulled the damn thing out of the air….

"What if something happens and I leave the mountain? How will you find me?"

T'Challa let out a sigh. "We can fit you with a tracker if it would ease your mind. Though I'd rather you not feel you needed one."

Bucky nodded vigorously, his hair brushing his shoulders as he did so. "No, I want one. Tomorrow."

"Very well," T'Challa said. "We will fit you with a tracker tomorrow morning before you meet with Dr. Grace. Assuming you accept his treatment plan." T'Challa broke gazes with Bucky and looked over at the doctor. Bucky followed his gaze.

"Are we going to stand around chatting or are we going to get on with this so I can get back to my research?" Dr. Grace said, his voice short. He glanced from T'Challa to Bucky.

Despite the snappiness in Dr. Grace's voice, T'Challa smiled. He placed his hand once more on Bucky's shoulder. "Please excuse the doctor," the king said, "He really is the best in his field but he prefers his books and his studies I'm afraid."

T'Challa turned his smile back to Bucky. "You are in good hands."

T'Challa gave Bucky's shoulder on final, reassuring squeeze before letting go. He turned to Drs. Grace and Short and bid his farewell before excusing himself from the room with a bow. The king shut the door behind him with a soft click, leaving Bucky alone in the room with the two doctors. He suddenly felt very nervous.

Dr. Grace sat back down in his leather chair. "Well, Sergeant Barnes." He gestured toward the purple couch. "Have a seat."

 **AN: It's been longer than I wanted but hereeeee's an update. I struggled with the ending of this one so hopefully its not stupid. Also, it was a brief introduction but you finally got to meet my OCs... from here on out there will be more of them and less of T'Challa in the story. Anyways, thanks to the reviewers, followers, and favoriters! Ya'll rock my socks. Hope you enjoy!**

 **PS: if anyone is also reading "Rebirth" (my Pietro story), that Alexa Jane Short and this story's Alexa Jane Short are completely different; I just like that name! haha :)**


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

Bucky took a nervous breath and sat down in the middle of the purple velvet couch, directly in front of Dr. Thaddeus Grace. He sat stiffly, his one arm drawn tightly to the side of his body, on the edge of his seat as if he was prepared to jump up and dart out of the room at a moment's notice. Which he was. The last time he had spoken with a psychiatrist, it hadn't gone well. Granted, that was a fake psychiatrist who intended on unleashing the Winter Solider. But still, Bucky was nervous. He dug his nails into his leg through the fabric of his jeans, forcing himself to remain calm and breath evenly. This man was here to help. T'Challa wouldn't have brought him here if he wasn't going to help. Bucky brought his eyes up from where they were focused on his lap and looked across the desk at Dr. Grace.

The doctor was turned in his chair, head down, rummaging in one of the drawers of his desk. Bucky could hear the sound of shuffling papers and the muttering of the doctor under his breath.

Bucky glanced over at the other doctor; the resident, Dr. Alexa Jane Short. She had stopped writing in her notebook and was looking intently at Bucky. When his eyes met hers, she gave him another smile and her eyes softened as if in reassurance. Bucky felt himself relax a little into the sofa.

"Ah ha!"

Bucky heard Dr. Grace's small exclamation and turned his attention back to the older doctor. Dr. Grace had procured a thick manila folder from the depths of the desk drawer and plopped it down on the glass surface of his desk. Glancing down at the folder, Bucky saw his own name scribbled across the top in black marker. Underneath was a notation: _A.K.A. The Winter Soldier._ Bucky swallowed apprehensively. Would this world, this era, ever know him as more than the assassin code named the Winter Soldier.

"So," Dr. Grace said, with the air of preamble, "Sergeant James Buchannan, 'Bucky,' Barnes. Quite a long name. Is there something simpler you'd rather be addressed as?"

Bucky opened his mouth to answer but his throat suddenly felt very dry. He found himself glancing back at Dr. Grace's resident. She gave him a subtle nod, encouraging him to go on.

"Bucky," he said, "Bucky is fine."

Dr. Grace raised an eyebrow. "Very well." He opened the manila folder. On the left side, a stack of papers was piled high. The right side was blank. The doctor pulled out a blank sheet of lined paper and placed it on the right side of the folder. Bucky watched Dr. Grace scribble today's date and then 'Bucky' in the hasty stereotypical doctor's scrawl. Looking back up at Bucky, Dr. Grace continued. "So, Bucky, Winter Soldier -"

"NO!" Bucky cut him off. His voice was louder than he intended and it shocked Dr. Grace into silence, his mouth hanging open. Dr. Short sat up straighter, her eyes wide.

Bucky had also come forward in his seat, his one hand was curled back into a fist. He took a breath, forcing air down into his lungs. Closing his eyes, he swallowed the panic that had risen in his chest. He let his breath out long and slow. In a much quitter voice, he repeated, "No." He unclenched his fist and settled back in his seat. "Please. Don't call me that. That's not me."

Dr. Short glanced from Bucky to Dr. Grace. Dr. Grace was staring, unblinkingly at Bucky's face. The three of them sat in silence for what felt like a long moment. Finally, Dr. Grace blinked and gave a small nod. His expression shifted into that of someone who had just made an interesting discovery. "Very well," he said again. His eyes dropped to the sheet of paper under his right hand, where the tip of his pen was balanced.

Bucky didn't look away from his face but heard the scratch of pen on paper as Dr. Grace made another note. Probably recording his outburst. Which was very 'Winter Solider' of him. Bucky closed his eyes and took several more long, even breaths, flexing the fingers of his only hand, forcing himself to relax. Dr. Grace was still scribbling but Bucky could feel Dr. Short's gaze on him. He opened his eyes and looked over at her.

Her brow was slightly furrowed and she was looking at him curiously. He couldn't quite read the expression on her face. She was obviously lost in thought as she didn't seem to comprehend that he was looking at her. Bucky took this moment to study her further; he did things like this when he was in a new situation. Part of it was his soldier/assassin instinct. Part of it was a coping mechanism. If he could find something in his immediate vicinity that he could divert his full attention to, something to scrutinize and study, it left less room in his mind for thoughts of the Winter Soldier. Bucky had previously made a mental profile of Dr. Grace when he had initially entered with T'Challa. But he had hardly noticed Dr. Short before. She was short in stature, maybe five foot two at tops. She had a thin build but was by no means "skinny;" her frame was filled out by muscles and Bucky guessed she must have been an athlete of some sort before becoming a doctor. Her skin was pale, but not in a sickly way. She was actually quite pretty if Bucky was honest with himself. She reminded him of the Eastern European girls he had seen when living in Romania, which he also thought were attractive. If he had to guess, Bucky would say Dr. Short was around his age. Well, his biological age; late twenties to early thirties. In reality, he was more like 101 but with all the years in cryo, did that really count?

Bucky realized he had successfully lost himself in his thoughts when Dr. Grace cleared this throat loudly to get his attention. Bucky's eyes jerked away from Dr. Short to focus back on the older man. He saw Dr. Short jolt back to attention as well, turning her head away from Bucky and looking at Dr. Grace.

Dr. Grace gave a subtly sigh of irritation, barely perceptible, and folded his hands on his desk top. "All right, Bucky, shall we get into the details of the treatment plan?"

Bucky nodded.

"Excellent," Dr. Grace finally seemed relaxed. He gave a small smile, also barely perceptible, and leaned back in his chair. Bucky could tell this was going to be a long explanation. He made himself comfortable on the couch as Dr. Grace dove straight in. "Brainwashing is not a common problem that we psychiatrists have to deal with. At least not brainwashing to the extent that you have been subjected to. Scientology, Patty Hearst, sex trafficking; these are some instances in which my profession has had to deal with some type brainwashing, or coercive persuasion, though control if you will. But your case is unique in many, many ways. This is not something that I've seen before."

Dr. Grace paused to ruffle though some of the papers in Bucky's file. "Injected with experimental super soldier serum, whose formula has been lost over the years. Countless stints in cryofreeze. Memory wipes. And then the act of the brainwashing itself, which was more than just the usual psychological techniques." Dr. Grace sighed looked up. He removed his glasses, almost as if for dramatic effect, and rubbed his temples. "Yours is a complicated case, Sergeant Barnes."

The doctor looked up and met Bucky's eyes. "But I've always loved a challenge. And, to put it as simply as possible, the root of all this is neurological wiring. We simply have to disconnect the existing circuits and re-wire them in a way that is non-destructive to yourself or those around you. This form of therapy has been done an infinite number of times in cases of obsessive compulsive disorder. Breaking down the neuronal pathways that link a specific response from a thought or external cue. I've researched this myself and have successfully treated many patients with this method. In your case, it will be difficult, but I believe it can be done. We just have more variables to deal with. What were the effects of the super soldier serum on your brain and your cognition? How do we address the complication of your memory gaps? And of course, how do we address relapses, or episodes of PTSD?"

Bucky felt hopeless. He had no idea what the answers to any of these questions were. He could barely keep himself together half the time.

Dr. Grace's voice and gaze softened as he continued to speak. "It won't be easy. It will test you mentally, emotionally, and even physically. It will break you down before building you back up. It will be a slow and painful process. It will be hard Sergeant Barnes, Bucky, but I believe it can be done. It will be done. The world has done you a great and terrible disservice all these years. I may be an old man who prefers his books and research to patient care these days, but I am a doctor. And my first a foremost duty is to serve and help the people. I will help you Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky stared at the man. No one had spoken to him like that since World War II. No one except Steve. Certainly no one at HYDRA and not even anyone at SHEILD. He didn't deserve this. Not in any way shape or form. Not after all the horrible acts he committed. The murders. The cold-blooded killings. He felt his breath caught in his throat, not sure what he was supposed to say now.

But Dr. Grace filled that gap for him. "I know what you're thinking Bucky. You are thinking you don't deserve this. That you are not worth saving. That your past actions don't warrant a chance at redemption."

Bucky gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"One of the things you have to learn in all of this is that what was done in the past was HYDRA. It was not James Buchannan Barnes."

Dr. Grace's brown eyes found Bucky's blue ones. They looked at each other in silence. The doctor's words hung in the air between them. Dr. Grace's gaze was kind, imploring Bucky to trust him, to accept what he said. The doctor's gaze lingered a moment longer and he broke eye contact.

Dr. Grace straightened in his chair and shuffled his papers. He looked up expectantly at Bucky. "Well, shall we begin?"

 **AN: I feel like this one is a little shorter than usual... and it's mostly dialogue so hopefully it's not too boring. For the next few chapters things are going to be a little slow, building up the relationship between Bucky and my OCs so, look forward to more dialogue. I had a request from a reviewer to write about how "unusually attracted to Bucky" Alexa is (which honestly, who isn't ;) ) but I don't want to rush anything (I've rushed ships before in fics and it just doesn't turn out right) so please, be patient, fluff (any maybe some smut ;) ) will be coming in the future.**

 **Also, I just wanted to be straight with y'all... writing about Bucky's "un-brainwashing" is actually kinda therapeutic for me... I'm drawing on some personal experience here. I have OCD and writing about Bucky dealing with his issues actually helps me deal with my anxiety. So anyways, I just wanted to let you know.**

 **Thanks for the reviews, follows, and favorites! Please keep reviewing; they make me smile! And I hope you enjoy! :)**


	8. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven:

For the first hour or so, Dr. Grace explained the semantics of the treatment plan. How they would have sessions every day for as long as Bucky chose but for at least an hour if they were to expect any kind of therapeutic effect. Bucky would be, for the most part, in charge of how these sessions went, what they talked about, what issues they decided to try and resolve. But, Dr. Grace had some specific things he needed to discuss with Bucky in order to undo the brainwashing. Those sessions wouldn't start for a while. Dr. Grace and Bucky needed to build up a relationship first. Not just a doctor patient rapport but some level of trust so the doctor could delve deep into the tangled mess that was Bucky's mind and try to undo everything HYDRA had done. Plus, before starting, Dr. Grace wanted to know Bucky from his personal point of view; not from the reports of the Winter Soldier gathered over the last 50 something years. So, the following hour was just Dr. Grace asking Bucky questions about himself. Which, for Bucky, was very frustrating. Bucky hardly remembered anything of his old life let alone what his favorite color was, or the address of his childhood home. Eventually, Bucky let out a frustrated sigh through gritted teeth which sounded more like a growl. He crashed back against the back of the couch, in an attempt to convey his frustrations and anger, and tried to cross his arms over his chest which didn't work well when one only had one arm. Bucky let out another growl/sigh and instead ran his hand impatiently through his hair. He turned away from Dr. Grace and stared angrily at the wall to his right as if it had just insulted him.

Dr. Grace didn't need to be a psychiatrist or be well versed in human body language to know that this was a sign to stop. "Well," he said, jotting down one last quick note. "Why don't we change gears. You can't very well trust me without knowing anything about me. So, let's see, what would you like to know about me?"

Bucky looked at Dr. Grace from the corner of his eye, face still turned towards the wall. What did he want to know about Dr. Grace? He turned his face back around and looked straight at the doctor. He hadn't needed to know anything about anyone for a long time. At least nothing more than the fact that they were a target and where they would be when he needed to take them out. Bucky shot a quick sideways glance at Dr. Short. She had been silent throughout everything so far. She simply watched Dr. Grace and Bucky, taking notes rarely, her head going back and forth between the two as if watching a tennis match. Now, her head was cocked ever so slightly to the side, as if curious to hear Bucky's answer.

Which, unfortunately, he didn't have. "I don't know," he said gruffly.

To Dr. Grace's credit, he was very patient with his patient. "Well, let's start with the basics. I'm a 72-year-old man. Born in Maryland. Studied human biology at Johns Hopkins then moved onto psychology at Harvard and eventually obtained my PhD there in psychiatry. My wife of 47 years, Francine, passed two years ago. I have three children, Maximillian, Isaac, and Samantha, all whom still reside in Maryland; seven grandchildren, Sarah, Michael, Riley, Chrissy, Cody, Holly, and James. I had a German Shepard named Ollie and my favorite color is orange. I drink two cups of coffee, three sugars each, every morning, and a glass of Scotch before bed." Dr. Grace finished by folding his hands over the folder in front of him on the desk. "Anything more you'd like to know?"

Bucky stared at the man. He wouldn't have pegged him as an animal kind of person. "German Shepard?"

Dr. Grace nodded. "Three years old. Still thinks he's a puppy. Nearly threw me out of my chair and broke my hip the other day when he tried to get in my lap."

Bucky was surprised when he felt a short laugh escape. At the sound, Dr. Grace's eyebrow rose. Bucky missed the gesture, lost in his own thoughts about dogs.

"I think… I think I had a dog when I was younger… Buster… it sounds familiar but I'm not sure."

Dr. Grace snatched up his pen and scribbled a note. Bucky heard the echo of pen on paper and realized Dr. Short was doing the same. He wondered what he said that was so exciting to the two psychiatrists. All he said was he thought, _thought,_ he had a dog named Buster. It might not be even real. HYDRA scrambled his brain so many times, he couldn't be sure what was real and what wasn't.

As Dr. Grace set his pen down, he glanced over at the small clock on his desk. It was facing away from Bucky so he couldn't tell what time it was but at that moment, Bucky's stomach gave a loud growl. It must be way past noon and Bucky hadn't had time to eat breakfast that morning before T'Challa had come to his door.

"Well," Dr. Grace said with the tone of finality. He closed Bucky's folder. "I think, Bucky, that is quite enough for today. We shall begin again tomorrow. Say ten o'clock sharp?"

Bucky nodded.

"Excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am an old mad with bad knees. I hope you don't mind if I pass along the task of escorting you to your room to Dr. Short here."

Bucky glanced over at Dr. Short, who was standing, piling her things in a neat stack at the corner of Dr. Grace's desk. Bucky gave a short shake of the head.

"Very good. I shall see you tomorrow then." Dr. Grace turned to his computer and was lost to the screen.

Dr. Short had now turned to Bucky. Now that she was standing, Bucky could see she lived up to her name. She was indeed short, despite the shiny black heels she wore. She also wore a pencil skirt that went to just below her knees which she straightened, seemingly uncomfortable in the garment. She flicked her long black hair over her shoulder and walked over to the door, the click of her heels muffled by the soft rugs on the floor. Pulling open the door, she looked behind her, eyebrows furrowed as Bucky still hadn't gotten up from the couch.

He had been lost in thought. This girl, this woman, was hardly a challenge for him. She was so short, so slight, she probably weighed less than his metal arm had. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration. But the point was, if he went into Winter Soldier mode there was no way Dr. Short would be able to stop him. He would, could, probably snap her spine, even without his metal arm, if she tried. He glanced over at Dr. Grace. Not that the seventy-two-year-old man with bad knees would be any better if Bucky was in Winter Soldier mode.

He swallowed apprehensively and rose from the couch, taking a tentative step towards Dr. Short and the door to the hallway. He had to remind himself that he couldn't keep thinking like that. If he did, he'd never be free of the Winter Soldier. He was safe. He was himself; he was Bucky. The trigger words were locked deep in T'Challa's vault. No one had access to them. No one here knew what those words were. But still, while those words existed, while those words still triggered something in his brain, he would always have that fear.

Bucky followed Dr. Short out into the hall. She led the way back down it to where Bucky's room was located. He knew it was his by the sight of the Wakandan guard stationed out front. She was a tall, muscular woman in the strange red and gold armor that the Wakandan women soldiers wore. She held a spear at her side and her head was shaved.

Even without the soldier, Bucky would have known it was his room. Years of working as a spy and assassin with HYDRA and his military training prior to that made him very aware of his surroundings. Almost subconsciously he counted his steps where ever he went. Could remember where he'd been and what turns he took to get from place to place. And though he door looked the same as every other door in this hallway, his brain somehow knew that this one stood out as his. He didn't miss a single detail.

What he did miss was the glance Dr. Short gave him over her shoulder as they walked.

When they reached the door, the guard gave a nod and stepped to the side, giving them access.

Dr. Short also stepped aside. She turned to face Bucky. "Well, Sergeant Barnes, we're here." She paused as if unsure of something. Bucky reached out for the door handle and the bead on his bracelet glowed blue before unlocking the door with a 'click'.

"I suppose I'll see you tomorrow. Ten o'clock."

Bucky nodded.

Dr. Short gave a nod back. Again, she paused as if unsure but gave another not and then strode off down the hall. Her heels clacked against the stone floor and Bucky turned to watch her for a few paces before disappearing into his room.

* * *

 **AN: I know it's been awhile and this is another short one but I wanted to at least give you guys something. This one is mainly mainly dialogue again but at this point in the story there's not much else going to happen for a while... so I hope it's not boring! Thank you all for you're follows/favorites/reviews! I hope you like! :) -CL**


	9. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight:

For the second day in a row, Bucky awoke to knocking at his door. With a groan that turned into a monstrous yawn, Bucky sat up in his bed. The history book he had begun two days ago was once again in his lap and he had fallen asleep while reading into the wee hours of the morning. Bucky found it was easier to fall asleep while his mind was preoccupied with reading than with his own thoughts. He had started reading at the World War II chapter and was now getting into the chapter about the 1960's.

There was another knock at the door. Bucky set the book aside, marking his place, and ran his hand over his face to rub the sleep away. His fingers brushed along the stubble on his chin and he wondered when he last shaved.

At the third knock, Bucky sighed through gritted teeth and swung his legs off the bed. He made his way barefoot through the small apartment to the door, wondering who in the hell was waking him up so God damn early.

Bucky pulled the door open to… nothing.

There was the sound of a throat clearing below his eye level. Bucky looked down to see a short, dark-skinned, teenage girl at his door. He had vague memories of her from before his most recent stint in cryosleep. This was the princess of Wakanda; T'Challa's sister Shuri. Bucky was now acutely aware of his disheveled appearance.

Shuri didn't seem to mind though. She had a cockeyed smile on her face and a spark of mischief in her eyes. Her hair, woven into so many tight braids that Bucky couldn't even count, was collected into two buns at the top of her head. There was a small, metal case tucked under her left arm.

"Good morning, Sergeant Barnes." Shuri said with a nod. "I am not sure about customs where you are from, but here in Wakanda, we bow to royalty."

Bucky felt heat rise to his cheeks in embarrassment. T'Challa had never asked him to bow. But their relationship was a little bit different having nearly killed each other not so long ago. Bucky swallowed nervously and bowed stiffly at the waist.

Shuri let out a laugh. "Oh stand up straight, Sergeant Barnes. I was joking."

Bucky felt his cheeks flush even darker and he let out a sigh, half annoyed, half amused. He straightened up and glared, only somewhat menacingly at the princess standing before him. Her cockeyed smile was now a full-on grin showing pearly white teeth. Standing there, looking at him like that, he was struck with a sudden memory. A skinny boy half his size, giving that same grin after Bucky had saved his butt from a school yard fight the kid was too stupid to back out of.

Shuri was speaking but Bucky stood blinking dumbly, lost in the memory, trying to place it in the mish-mashed mess of his past.

He was pulled from his thoughts when Shuri asked, softly, "Sergeant Barnes, are you all right?" Her grin had faded and she looked concerned, her brow furrowed.

Bucky took a deep breath and cleared his mind of the past, focusing on the now. "Yeah. Um, yes. Sorry. I'm fine."

"Then shall we proceed?" Shuri asked.

"With what?"

Shuri rolled her eyes. Her concern vanished and she brushed past Bucky into his apartment. "You are so like my brother. I swear when men get muscle they lose brains." She sat on the couch and placed her metal case on the coffee table. Bucky turned to follow her as she opened the latches on the case with a snap. He sat in the arm chair to her left.

"My brother told me you would feel more comfortable with a tracker. I was up all night making this. I didn't think standard trackers would please you." As Shuri spoke, she expertly tinkered with whatever it was in her case. Her eyes were focused on the case's contents and she launched into her explanation with a passion similar to what Bucky had seen whenever a HYDRA scientist launched into a speech about their most current invention.

"After all," she was saying, "with your enhanced strength, it would be too easy for you to rip off a standard wrist or ankle cuff. And the usual injectable trackers are either unreliable or damaged by the body's immune response. And they are too superficial making them easy to remove as well. But _my_ tracker has a vibrainium shell meaning it will not be broken down by the body. It has an organic film as well, which will adhere to the organic components in your own muscle. Meaning you can't just rip it out. And there's no battery. It relies on the electrical impulses of your own cells. So as long as you are alive, Sergeant Barnes, and as long as you don't get your entire deltoid ripped out, we will be able to track you anywhere, anytime."

By the time she had finished talking, Shuri had produced a scalpel, a pair of sinister looking forceps, a very, very small black capsule that was glowing a faint blue from within, and a monstrous syringe. She was looking over her instruments at Bucky with that mischievous smile again. "So, are you ready Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky had gone through a lot in his extended life. Experimentation by Zola. The implantation of his metal arm and accompanying circuitry. Brainwashing. Memory wiping. More episodes of cryosleep than he could count. The ripping off of his metal arm. Yet, seeing those medical tools in the hands of a sixteen-year-old, albeit a genius sixteen-year-old, was probably the most terrifying thing he had faced. Well, nearly.

Still, he nodded. He would feel much more comfortable, much safer, if he had a tracker. A way for T'Challa and Steve to find him if… something… happened. It would put his mind at ease, not only for the benefit of his own well-being, but for the well-being of everyone around him.

At his nod, Shuri's smile shifted from mischievousness to excitement. "Come, come. Sit here. I have to have space to work." She patted the couch beside her. Bucky rose from the chair and shuffled his way between the pieces of furniture to sit beside the princess. "Now, turn. Face away from me please." Bucky did as instructed and faced away from Shuri.

His back muscles tensed when he felt the cool, dampness of an alcohol swab on his skin. Shuri moved it in large circles on the deltoid of his good shoulder.

"I have to make an incision first," Shuri said. Bucky heard the 'clink' of the scalpel as she lifted it and cleaned it. "Do you need an anesthetic first?"

"I'll be fine." Bucky said. He grit his teeth and tried to relax his shoulder. It would hurt worse if he was tensed up. Bucky felt Shuri's thin warm fingers on his shoulder, pulling his skin taut. Then, he felt the cool, sharp pierce of the scalpel. He let out his breath in a wince. Shuri made fast work with her incision though, and as soon as he felt the blade rip through his skin, he felt it withdraw. His heightened senses tracked the warm trickle of blood down his back. Shuri wiped it away with another alcohol swab and as the swab ran over the edge of the incision, the alcohol burned and stung the exposed nerve endings. Bucky wished he had his other arm so he could clench his fist to distract himself from the pain at his back. But this was ridiculous. He had been through _much_ worse. This was nothing.

"Now's the painful part," Shuri said. Her hands left his shoulder and Bucky heard her pick up her next instrument. He assumed it was the terrifying looking scissors. "I have to cut away a small section of muscle. Enough to make room from the capsule and the cut tissue will regenerate and fuse to the organic coating on the tracker. Are you sure you don't need an anesthetic? I can send for some."

"Just finish," Bucky said through gritted teeth.

Shuri let out a sigh that sounded somewhere between exasperation and admiration. With any further preamble, Bucky felt her fingers steady themselves around the incision on his shoulder and the next thing he felt was the sharp snap of the scissors as they cut through the fibers of his deltoid. His head rocked back in pain and he gritted his teeth even harder together. Before he could stop himself, the fingers on his hand curled into a fist, causing a chain reaction of muscles tightening all along his arm and up into the cut muscles.

"Sergeant Barnes, you need to relax." Shuri's tone was tense.

Bucky let out a hiss of breath and unclenched his fist, relaxing his muscles as best as he could. He shut his eyes and forced himself to concentrate on breathing evenly in through his nose and out through his mouth. The experimental super soldier serum he had been given 70-something years ago meant he would withstand a lot of pain; more so than the average human being. _Withstand._ He still _felt_ it and this hurt like hell.

Shuri made another cut. And another. And Bucky felt his shoulder go numb with the pain. He was breathing easier now.

He heard the clatter of Shuri putting the scissors down. "All that's left is to insert the tracker."

Bucky heard Shuri fiddling with what must be the last instrument; the wide-barreled syringe. "Are you ready?"

Bucky nodded."

Once more, Shuri placed fingers around the edge of the incision she had made. Bucky felt the tip of the wide gage needle slid in between the severed muscle fibers. There was a little jolt as Shuri depressed the plunger and he felt the tracker implant itself within the damaged muscle. Shuri slid the syringe out of the incision.

"Wow," Bucky heard her say. "Your accelerated healing is already regenerating muscle tissue." Her voice held a sense of awe. "I am literally watching muscle grow."

Through gritted teeth, Bucky said, "Just sew it up and bandage it."

Shuri snapped out of it. "Right. Yes. Hold still. I've never been good with my sewing. Much to my mother's dismay."

Bucky groaned.

"Shush," Shuri said. Bucky already felt her going to work, closing up his wound. "If you're still it'll be a clean stitch and you won't have much of a scar. If any. You're healing abilities are remarkable. I'd love to study you in my lab."

Bucky let out a bark of laughter as Shuri switched from needle and medical thread to gauze and bandages. "I have enough people studying me right now. I don't need another."

Shuri 'tutted' as she put the final bandage in place, completely covering the incision. "The Doctors Grace and Short are helping you, not studying you."

Bucky rolled her eyes though she couldn't see him. "Same thing."

Shuri shook her head though he couldn't see her. "Men," she muttered. She packed up her things back into the metal case as Bucky turned in his seat to face her.

"How do you know it's working?" he asked.

Shuri closed the case and tapped her bracelet. It was like the one T'Challa wore. And like Bucky's own, though it had more beads. One of the beads was pulsing like a heartbeat. "This bead is linked to the tracker. T'Challa has one as well. And the tracker is synced to our computer network."

Bucky nodded.

"There's also a taser within the tracker. Controlled by the beads. So if something does happen, we can out you out and get you back." Shuri tapped the bead.

Bucky felt his eyes widen. "You could have told me about that before you implanted it into my muscle."

Shuri gave a mischievous smile once more. "Just an added bonus to make sure you behave yourself, _American_." Shuri winked.

Bucky suddenly felt very afraid that Shuri would tase him, just for fun.

Shuri's grin widened to show her teeth again. "Don't be afraid, Sergeant Barnes. I'm very responsible with weaponry." She stood and picked up her case. "Now, you better get dressed. I expect the doctors will be waiting for you." Shuri patted Bucky on his shoulder, right over the bandage, and left his room with a smile.

* * *

 **AN: Sorry it's been so long! I've been busy and whenever I had down time I had a bad case of writer's block. But this just kinda came to me. I wasn't going to put Shuri in for a while but I like this idea. I hope I'm writing her in character. Thank you for all the favorites, follows, and reviews. Please keep up the reviews! They encourage me to write more and faster despite when I have writer's block. I hope you like! -CL**


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